


let the future in

by iphigenias



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:50:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11642154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iphigenias/pseuds/iphigenias
Summary: “You’re an idiot,” she informs him. He turns back to face her and grins.“Youridiot, though.”“I suppose,” she says, but she’s smiling. He scoots forward, careful of his hands, and kisses her. Lydia feels it right down to her toes.





	let the future in

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe i'm writing stydia fic in the year of our lord 2017. i can't believe i'm writing _teen wolf_ fic in the year of our lord 2017. but the 6b trailer reeled me the fuck back in and 6a stydia got me good. title is from mikky ekko's _kids_

Lydia sits up against the headboard, painting her nails with that new midnight blue polish Stiles bought for her last week. It’s so dark it almost looks black, at least until it catches the light. She likes the way the darkness looks against her skin, blue-almost-black against the ivory of her carefully moisturised hands. Stiles does, too. She can feel his gaze on her from where he’s lying down on the bed. He’s wearing boxers and her too-large MIT sweatshirt she bought specifically with him in mind. He looks like a dream, like _her_ dream, and even though they’re coming up on two years together sometimes she still can’t quite believe it’s real. That _they’re_ real. That they survived everything that was thrown at them, and worse, and they’re still alive to talk about it. _Together_. The thought never fails to send a small thrill up her spine.

“Want me to do yours?” she asks, wiggling the bottle of polish in front of Stiles’ face. He grins, wide and bright, and splays his hand on her knee in acquiescence. She dips the brush into the polish, wipes the excess on the rim of the bottle, and carefully applies the blue to his thumbnail. He hums softly as she works; some new Top 40 song he’ll no doubt be sick of by the end of the day. Outside, the clouds that have been hovering all day give way to a light curtain of rain. The water streaks in rivulets across the dorm window, and Lydia is infinitely glad for her foresight in closing the hatch earlier that afternoon.

“Told you it would rain,” she says, blowing gently on Stiles’ nails to speed up the drying process. “You should stay, drive back in the morning.”

Stiles opens his eyes—she isn’t even sure when he closed them—and smiles up at her. “I’d hardly call this rain,” he says, craning his head to glance out the window. “You just want an excuse to keep me here overnight, admit it.”

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m that transparent, Stiles.” She nudges his right hand off her knee and replaces it with his left. “You don’t have class tomorrow, I don’t know why you wanted to drive back tonight anyway. It’s a long way in the dark.”

“Seven hours. Not that bad,” he says. “And Matt wanted to get a start on our project tomorrow, you know that.”

“Matt can wait,” Lydia replies, a little viciously. Stiles squeezes her knee gently.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until she looks at him before continuing. “I work better last minute anyways,” he smiles. “I’ll text him.”

“Good.” She finishes his hand and blows gently on the drying polish. “I’ll ring for dinner while you let that dry, okay? _Do not_ touch anything.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s like you don’t know me at all, Lyds.” But he settles himself against the pillows, eyes tracking her movements as she grabs her phone from the desk and dials the number for their favourite Chinese restaurant. She knows Stiles’ order off by heart, now, and it’s another thrill up her spine when she realises that.

Stiles will never stop making her heart skip.

“Forty minutes,” she says when she hangs up, falling to the bed beside Stiles and curling on her side towards him. He wiggles his eyebrows.

“I know what we could do in forty minutes.”

“So do I,” Lydia says. “We could wait for your nails to dry.”

“I hate you,” Stiles replies, turning his head away from her. “Was this your plan all along?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Lydia says dryly. “I painted your nails not because you wanted me to but because I wanted to give my boyfriend blue balls. You got me.”

“I knew it!” Lydia rolls her eyes.

“You’re an idiot,” she informs him. He turns back to face her and grins.

“ _Your_ idiot, though.”

“I suppose,” she says, but she’s smiling. He scoots forward, careful of his hands, and kisses her. Lydia feels it right down to her toes. It shouldn’t still feel like this, kissing Stiles. They’ve been together for going on two years, his kisses shouldn’t make her feel as light-headed as they do—he ate her out not three hours ago, for Christ’s sake, a simple press of lips shouldn’t set her heart pounding. Except it does, they do, and every moment she spends with Stiles feels like the beginning of forever all over again.

Lydia smooths her hands over the front of his sweatshirt (her sweatshirt). The MIT logo is faded from too many washes, the shoulders stretched out by virtue of the fact that Stiles wears it more often than she does, these days. She slides her hands under the hem and rests her palms against the warmth of Stiles’ stomach, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breath beneath her hands. He lets his own hand move from her shoulder to her neck, thumb on her pulse point, fingers resting against her clavicle and grounding her, safe like an anchor weighed down at low tide. These are the moments Lydia likes best; the quiet, gentle stretches of time that feel like pieces stolen from someone else’s life, someone who isn’t a banshee and who hasn’t lost more friends than she would care to admit. These are the moments that feel golden, that feel precious; that make her almost thankful for all the pain they’ve both been through if that’s what it took to bring them here, together.

Of course, Lydia likes the other moments too. The ones where Stiles’ hand disappears beneath her skirt, when she’s wet and hot and aching, the ones where he rests his head between her thighs or slides his big hands under her bra, the ones where she slips her own hand inside his jeans and feels the heavy, heady weight of him in her palm, the ones where they kiss messily, achingly, the ones that leave bruises against the delicate skin of both their necks, the ones that mean they have to wash the sheets after, that make her heartbeat thrum like so many hummingbirds’ wings.

But Lydia still likes these moments best. She thinks Stiles does too, likes the stillness that calms the ever-present storm inside his mind, the safety net of Lydia’s arms around him to ground him and remind him that this is real, this is safe, this is theirs and theirs alone. (Though she knows he likes the other moments, too.)

The doorbell rings with their food and Lydia stirs. Digs out the cash from her wallet, answers the door in her pyjama bottoms and Stiles’ favourite red t-shirt now faded into a dusky pink. They eat on the bed, swapping food and stories and kisses, and Stiles spills rice down his shirt and Lydia gets sauce in her hair, and the rain falls heavier outside and beats against the glass of the window, and Lydia kisses the taste of Moo Shu pork from Stiles’ mouth, and the room smells of nail polish and fried rice and Marc Jacobs perfume and the moment is perfect in all its imperfections and Lydia has to close her eyes against the feeling of it all. Stiles is there when she opens them, like he always is, and when he takes her hand their fingers look interchangeable, indistinguishable. Lydia kisses him and the world spins on.


End file.
